


(It's) All Chair Parts

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole point of the performance is to look hot as hell, and Santana is doing an awesome job. Too awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(It's) All Chair Parts

Title: (It's) All Chair Parts  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through 3x18.  
Summary: The whole point of the performance is to look hot as hell, and Santana is doing an awesome job. Too awesome.

  
The rehearsals for “Cell Block Tango” aren’t going quite as well as Brittany would have hoped—and it’s totally Santana’s fault. Not that she’s doing it on purpose this time, Brittany thinks; after all, the choreography belongs to Brittany herself, and the costumes were jazzed together by Mercedes and a worn-out _Chicago_ DVD. If anybody is to blame for how sexy they all are, it’s not Santana at all, whose main task in this number was to coach Sugar through her verse line by line.

Anyway, the whole _point_ of the performance is to look hot as hell—and Santana is doing an awesome job. Too awesome.

The problem is, it is much, much easier to swing herself through the moves _she_ wrote when Santana isn’t dressed like _that_. Brittany knows every step by heart, but the second Santana struts into focus, it doesn’t seem to matter. Her knees go all wobbly and strange, her heart cracking against her ribcage. She’s pretty sure if anybody were to glance over, they’d find her standing stock-still, cartoon-style: mouth lolling open, tongue hanging out, eyes as big as dinner plates.

Which makes it somewhat less hot as hell, unless you’re into those animated wolves who throw their heads back and howl at what they like.

There’s no place for a howl in this song, so Brittany does her best to clench her own tongue between her teeth and look anywhere but at Santana’s shimmying ass and black lingerie. She kicks and strokes her way through the song with her eyes closed, and it helps—sort of. Except Santana is _right there_ , and Brittany can feel the heat radiating off her girlfriend’s barely-covered body as she husks her way along the verse about stabbing some jealous dude in the chest. Santana’s voice is sexier than her dance moves, somehow—which, back in the days when they were all about the Cheerios, Brittany hadn’t thought possible—and there’s no way to get around it. Not when tuning her out would throw her own steps off to the point of starting over.

Again.

Right on cue, she slips against the chair she’s meant to be straddling and nearly goes down on her face. Sugar shoots her an awkward little glance, just in the way enough for Brittany to miss her next cue entirely. Mercedes groans.

“ _Brittany_.”

“Shut it, Wheezy,” Santana pipes up immediately, drawing close behind Brittany and grasping lightly at her elbow. “We’ve done this twelve times. She’s tired.”

“ _I’m_ tired,” Mercedes points out wryly. “Your girl is something else.”

Brittany feels her face flush, not so much with embarrassment as with undeniable lust; Santana’s hand is trickling down her arm, fingers teasing along bare skin. It's impossible not to see her out of the corner of her eye, all tempting black bra, and shining leather, and hot, tight spandex—

Never mind the dancing; she's sort of forgetting how to _breathe_ now.

“We can call it a day,” Tina announces, reaching down to help Mike up from his cross-legged spot near the curtains. “I’m late for dinner anyway. Pick it up tomorrow?”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “Depends. Is Madame President going to have her shit together by then?”

“Best watch yourself,” Santana advises coolly. “I’m not above hurling my chair at your Whitney-wailing head next time around.”

Mercedes snorts. “Just be here before homeroom. We can get a run-through in early, if we’re quick.”

They vanish after that: Tina squealing as Mike sweeps her into his arms and leaps from the stage, Mercedes following with a shake of her head and an arm looped through Sugar’s. Brittany sighs, combing her fingers through the hair spilling out from beneath her cap.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, eyes fixed on the floor. “I got—“

“Distracted?” Santana grins. “I figured. You don’t fuck up choreography unless your head is somewhere far, far away.”

“Not _so_ far,” Brittany murmurs coyly, and flicks her gaze up through her eyelashes. Santana is leaning against the edge of her chair, arms folded over her chest, eyes dark. She looks endlessly fuckable, all long legs and soft curves, with her gaze skimming her over like Brittany is a piece of meat in a bra and a pair of stockings.

There are worse ways to be looked at by a woman like Santana.

“You seemed okay,” Santana informs her after a long beat of just staring, “right up until the chair part.”

“It’s _all_ chair parts,” Brittany reminds her. Santana inclines her head, dragging her nails lightly across her bicep as her arms swing apart, her knee pressing into the chair cushion just as the choreography requires.

“Maybe you just need a bit more practice,” she says after a second, and there is absolutely no missing the flirtatious note on the last word. Brittany licks her lips.

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Mmhmm. And you know what? I’ll even help you out. Because I’m _such_ a good girlfriend.”

“So good,” Brittany agrees, a shade too hurriedly. Santana’s tongue pokes through her teeth, smile broad and cool.

“The best, probably.”

Brittany would like to keep the banter going, but it's really hard to think fast with Santana hiking one sex-goddess leg over the back of her chair and leaning into it. Her thigh flexes, smooth and strong, and Brittany feels her heart do that thing again—the rag-tag slam against her breastbone that probably leaves an indent big enough to be seen in the dim red lighting of the auditorium. One dark eyebrow arches above Santana’s pretty eyes, reading her with a look.

“Can’t practice from over there,” she observes flirtily, and Brittany all but kills herself stumbling to her own chair. Funny, she thinks as she sinks down and leans back, how she never seems to have a problem walking in heels—until Santana looks at her like _that_. Like she’s three seconds away from ripping her clothes right off and doing the nasty on that lucky, lucky chair.

Brittany wouldn’t disagree with that option, although she can think of a few better ones that don't give a piece of furniture all the credit.

Santana seems to be enjoying herself, shifting her weight so that the chair tips slowly onto its back legs. It’s a move pulled straight from the performance, but she somehow isn’t doing it the way Brittany intended two nights ago, working out the logistics in her basement. It isn’t so much a carefully fluid motion as an out-and-out seductive one, and when her left foot touches down on the stage, her hips don’t swivel to dismount like she’s supposed to. Instead, Santana hangs there, half-suspended, the chair pressed flush between her legs. Brittany’s mouth goes dry.

 _This_ isn’t going to help, she thinks wildly, as Santana cants her hips gently and tips her head back. This is just going to make tomorrow morning even harder, and by the time they’re putting on their little show for Beiste and the others, she probably won’t make it through the first few bars before tumbling right off the stage. An image like this—of Santana’s dark curls spilling across her shoulders, her hips rolling against cool metal—tends to stick.

And distract.

Maybe she’ll get extra points for making them laugh at her complete and total lack of focus.

Santana smirks at her, an evil little expression that makes Brittany want to surge three feet across the stage and take revenge for what she’s doing. “Taking notes?”

Brittany hears herself rasp out a breath, her legs instinctively pressing together as Santana holds where she is, rubbing languidly against the chair. “Yes,” she breathes when Santana arches an impatient eyebrow again. “Notes. Sure.”

“See,” Santana begins, punctuating the word with a short thrust and a low moan, “the trick is to really show the chair who’s _boss_. Confidence, baby. You can be confident, can’t you?”

She’s pretty confident she’s going to lose her mind in the next twelve seconds if Santana keeps riding that chair at such a painfully slow pace. Her head nods, her jaw slackening as the watches the inappropriately bare material above her girlfriend's thighs bunch even higher.

“Sure, yeah, confidence.”

Santana makes a little noise in the back of her throat, dipping her hips in a tiny circle. “Good. That’s what this song is all about. Being confident.”

Brittany is reasonably sure the song is actually about brutally murdering men who do you wrong, but Santana is wearing her _don’t argue with me when I’m grinding on a chair for you_ face, so she shuts up and just nods again. “Totally.”

The rail of her own chair is warming against her shoulder blades, the seat sticking uncomfortably to her thighs when she shifts in place. Her hands hang numbly at the ends of her wrists; they seem to belong to someone else as her fingers spread over her knees, and begin to trace their way slowly up. Santana pauses, red lips flashing in a smile that makes Brittany’s head spin.

“We’re not there yet.”

Brittany opens her mouth to protest, to insist that she wasn’t doing anything at all, but Santana is pivoting off of her chair and letting it fall back into place with a soft clatter. She looks like a panther, Brittany thinks dazedly, stalking toward her this way: hips swinging, heels thudding with each solid step. The sliver of skin at her midriff twists and bobs as her top rides up, and suddenly, the singular thought in Brittany’s head is of licking that space until Santana’s dark nails dig into her scalp and hang on for dear life.

“Where are we?” she tries to ask, and only hears herself let out a strange low sound of desire. Santana comes to a halt at her knees, placing one hand on either shoulder and bending to look Brittany dead in the eye.

“Showing who’s boss,” she murmurs simply, fingers kneading roughly into the flushed skin on either side of Brittany’s bra straps. “That’s the most important part.”

A sharp burst of urgent fire sounds off between her legs; Brittany clenches her thighs tighter together, her back arching. Santana swipes closed lips against the edge of her mouth, her fingers curling and uncurling against Brittany’s skin. One thumb slips beneath a strap and lifts it lazily, edging it to the curve of her shoulder and hovering there.

Brittany groans and tilts forward in her chair, straining to make contact; Santana’s lipstick is so red, so vibrant, that all she can think of is smudging it. _Debauched_ is the word in her mom’s old romance novels, and the idea of making Santana look like that—of messing up all that prettily-applied make-up and those carefully-adjusted curls sweeping down her back—makes her stomach leap with hot pleasure. Santana is beautiful always, but she is sexiest when she is at Brittany’s mercy—

—and equally so, she corrects with a jolt as Santana boldly meets her mouth with a sudden, open kiss, when she has Brittany right where she wants her. Her fingers tighten against the soft place where her thighs meet glossy spandex as her head swims. Making Santana's mind go blank with anything but begging is super hot, but when she’s like this, her tongue gliding past Brittany’s lips on a moan, her nails scratching at her shoulders, Brittany is the one who forgets to think altogether.

She guesses that means Santana wins this round, but now isn’t the time to say so. She stretches up, lips parting until Santana’s mouth slip-slides wetly against her with no plan, no focus, no care at all. Santana’s tongue is heavy in her mouth, warm and familiar as it skates along the edges of her teeth, sucking her in bit by bit. She groans, and fists her hands at the inside of her thighs, bare inches from where she’s been throbbing with want all afternoon.

“Uh uh,” Santana warns against her lips, and buries a hand in Brittany’s hair, pulling her forcibly deeper into the kiss. She’s hot all over as her body nudges forward, legs lifting and dropping again until she is hovering above Brittany’s lap, angled down into her. She’s hot, and her lips are demanding, and when she sucks at Brittany’s tongue almost hard enough to hurt, Brittany’s hands zing up from her own legs and land solidly on Santana’s waist.

She wants Santana to lower herself that last inch, to plant herself squarely in Brittany’s lap, but Santana is stubborn. Her hands wrench at Brittany’s hair, urging her face this way and that, straining to follow the angle of a kiss that never seems to sit still.  
Groaning, Brittany hikes her hips up off the chair only to be slammed back into place by a sharp roll of Santana’s body. Santana laughs into her mouth, thighs flexing.

“Who’s boss?” she asks, half-muffled as she catches hold of Brittany’s lip between her teeth and bites down. Brittany gasps, palms slipping to crush against Santana’s back.

She takes a second to answer, her head lost in a haze of teeth and fingertips, and it’s not until Santana draws up and repeats herself in a husk of hot breath, right in Brittany’s ear, that she groans out, “You. You’re boss.”

“Mmhmm,” Santana agrees, tongue circling the earlobe wetly. “And don’t forget it.”

She doesn’t know how she even _could_ , with Santana’s body lightly bobbing above her lap like this. Santana, whose arms lace around her neck and grasp the back of the chair, grinding on the air with slow, deliberate motions that make the muscles in Brittany’s stomach dance without rhythm. Santana knows what she’s doing—dark and thrilling, sending shivers skating up and down Brittany’s bones—and Brittany loves her for it.

“ _Please_ ,” she whimpers. Santana mouths against her jawline, tipping her head back until her hat threatens to fall loose. “Please.”

“What’s that?” Santana mumurs, licking roughly at a patch of sensitive skin at the height of her neck. Brittany’s eyes roll back.

“Touch me,” she thinks, or says, or groans, and however it comes out, it gets results. Santana’s legs are strong and snug on either side of her hips, her ass warm as it comes to rest. Brittany lifts her hips eagerly, pleased when Santana bites down on her neck hard enough to send tiny shockwaves rolling between her legs.

She pulls at Santana’s hair, hands cradling her cheeks with a clumsy desperation as she coaxes her girlfriend into another deep, wild kiss. Santana’s tongue buffers against her own, her voice almost amused as she matches Brittany moan for moan, gasp for gasp. In fighting back, Brittany is doing exactly what she wants, she realizes, _showing her who’s boss_ —or, at least, showing her Brittany can’t be owned so easily.

They own _each other_. That’s always been the game, and Brittany isn’t willing to give it up today.

She loses herself in Santana, in hot hands that skip and pattern relentlessly against her bare skin, fingers flicking at the clasp of her bra and shoving it roughly aside. Santana squirms nearer, her clothed chest catching against Brittany’s bare one, and scratches prickly pink lines down her arms, her shoulder blades, the joint of her neck as it becomes her back. Her hips pound down as Brittany’s angle up, until their kiss is breathless, until Santana’s composure slips beyond the level of _boss_ and trickles back into wanting just as badly as Brittany does.

“Turn,” Brittany pants, turning her face against Santana’s hair and sucking in a desperate breath. “ _Turn_.”

Santana’s mouth lands one more time, hot and graceless, against her cheekbone, and then her hips are lifting off of Brittany’s lap and swiveling, as if Brittany is the chair she is meant to be flouncing around. One more glimpse of her face—her lipstick ruined, her cheeks a vivid pink, totally and completely _debauched_ —and then Brittany catches hold of her waist and holds, keeping her aloft for a long second as she spreads her own legs and collects herself. She inhales, fingers fumbling to drag polished, constricting material over Santana’s hips, down the hot length of her thighs. _Boss_ , she thinks giddily, as Santana kicks the shorts away and bends back, _yeah, I can show her boss_.

She guides Santana down, until her backside is planted squarely between Brittany’s legs, the slope of her spine fitting between Brittany’s shivering breasts. There’s too much between them still, too much space Brittany would rather be rid of, but she’ll make do. Her hands trail down Santana’s stomach, fingering the expanse of smooth, tan skin peeking out from beneath her mishmashed top, and moans low in her throat when Santana straightens her shoulders and bows her back in response. It never grows old, the sensation of Santana against her, Santana’s back rubbing harshly against stiff nipples, Santana’s hips jolting backward to meet her. It never grows old, when her hands part Santana’s thighs, finding her wet and swollen, to hear the choked breath Santana stutters on.

She presses her face between Santana’s shoulder blades, reveling in the brush of heavy hair against her forehead, and breathes. Santana hooks her ankles around the chair legs, legs spread wide, and lets her head spill back carelessly as Brittany touches her—smooth strokes, gentle, feeling her out. She knows Santana’s body better than any dance step, can find her way without looking, but it’s nice to take the moment to explore. It lets Santana know exactly who’s in charge, proves that this _practice_ really is for Brittany’s sake.

Confidence, she thinks as her tongue flattens into the material draped over Santana’s skin. She can do confidence, her hands moving with steady purpose up Santana’s thighs. Her nail traces the edge of Santana’s clit, urging her hips to buck in response; she grins, opening her mouth in a heated kiss as Santana moans her name, and does it again, shaping her way across raised flesh and addictingly wet heat.

She feels Santana catch hold of her right wrist and skid down, covering her hand until they’re moving as one. Santana shows her where to go as her ass rubs frenziedly against Brittany’s crotch, as if Brittany has never done this before, as if she needs Santana giving her the grand tour. She doesn't, but somehow, the brash way Santana leads her, mewling softly when Brittany hesitates here and there, teasingly stroking at the joint of her thigh, is unrelentingly sexy. Santana leads, and Brittany allows herself to follow, taking the mesh material of Santana’s top between her teeth and pulling. She flexes her free hand against Santana's stomach and pushes herself forward on the chair, bolstered by the vision that is Santana helping her, touching herself as she squirms in Brittany's lap.

Santana is hot under their joined hands, her skin slick and ready as she raises her hips impatiently. “Here,” she moans, pressing Brittany against throbbing, desperate nerves. “ _Please_.”

Brittany gives a light rub, two fingers etching circles around and around until Santana thrusts into her hand, tugging at her wrist to move lower. She angles through soaked folds, tracing the curves and shadows she’s long-since memorized until Santana stops her, fingertips tapping.

“Please,” Santana hisses again, and Brittany can’t resist a throaty little laugh of her own.

“What’s that?” she teases. Santana grunts impatiently and curls her fingers around Brittany’s, guiding her in, stretching to accommodate her with a strangled little moan.

“Need you,” she murmurs, tilting her head back against Brittany’s shoulder and closing her eyes. “Need you inside—need you to fuck—“

The words spur something in her, the clench of Santana around her fingers sending spirals of trembling love and want sparking through her system. She thrusts deeper, crooking her fingers when Santana lifts and drops in her lap, making inarticulate noises that grow louder with each passing moment. Pumping her fingers, rocking the heel of her hand between Santana’s legs, she lets her shoulders go limp against the chair back as her own body goes chasing after Santana’s. She’s moaning, the burn in her arm matching up with the pulse of her own clit as she sinks in and in, feeling Santana pull her as deep as she can go.

“Need,” Santana gasps again, her free hand clutching Brittany’s hair between quivering fingers. “ _God_ , baby—“

Her hips are rocking frantically, her forehead beading with sweat as she strokes within Santana's walls, feeling her build with each shudder that runs through them both. Santana, lip between her teeth, eyelashes fluttering, writhes, toes tilting into the ground, body clenching and clenching as she struggles toward the edge.

“Who’s boss?” Brittany asks, the words barely intelligible around her own whimper as the friction between her legs strikes a brand new height. “ _Who’s boss_?”

“ _Ohh—you_ ,” Santana moans, and clutches Brittany’s wrist hard enough to bruise as her body wracks around slim fingers. Brittany shifts her angle a fraction of an inch, pushing back against the thrumming nerves that send Santana spiraling in a whirlwind of filthy curses and incoherent wails, and follows a beat later with a cry of her own when Santana’s jerky motions grind back in _just_ the right way.

She arches up off the chair, nearly dislodging the girl from her lap entirely, and wraps her free arm around Santana’s waist to keep her steady. Her fingers slip, easing out of the tight cradle of Santana’s body, her eyes rolling when Santana twitches around her one last time.

“That,” she pants out as Santana slumps against her chest, spent, “did _not_ help with the choreography.”

“Sure it did,” Santana mumbles, craning her neck to smile blearily up at her. “You just needed to fuck me. Now it’s out of your system. You’ll kill it tomorrow.”

“Except for when I’m imagining _someone_ riding her chair like a stripper,” Brittany teases, trying not to laugh out loud at the idea that fucking Santana could _ever_ be out of her system. Santana shrugs, accidentally rubbing too hard against her nipples again. “Ow, careful. Sensitive.”

“I’ll show you sensitive,” Santana laughs. Brittany pokes her in the thigh.

“Like you showed me confident?”

“I’m telling you,” Santana says happily, “it’ll work. Tomorrow, you will rock the sexy hell out of that chair and that song, no problem.”

“And if I don’t?” Brittany asks, playfully offering a weary thrust to Santana’s ass. She is rewarded with a long, lazy kiss, pressed sloppily to the underside of her chin.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to practice some more.”

 _Practice more_. It isn’t a bad idea. In fact, arms loose around Santana’s middle, Brittany thinks maybe pushing back the performance date a little ways couldn’t hurt.

She has a few new moves she'd like to see Santana perform in that outfit first.  



End file.
